


It Is Our Choices That Show What We Truly Are

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [35]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Crowley is a Hufflepuff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Secret Relationship, fight me i swear, just hogwarts nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Aziraphale had always enjoyed a nice snack. He kept a stash of pumpkin pasties under his bed, a container of cauldron cakes in his trunk, and usually had a chocolate frog or two in his pocket.It was a good thing, then, that his best friend had rather unlimited access to the Hogwarts kitchens.





	It Is Our Choices That Show What We Truly Are

**Author's Note:**

> this was Supposed to be about how much Aziraphale loves the Hogwarts cooking but then my brain said No and,,, here we are,,,

Aziraphale had always enjoyed a nice snack. He kept a stash of pumpkin pasties under his bed, a container of cauldron cakes in his trunk, and usually had a chocolate frog or two in his pocket.

It was a good thing, then, that his best friend had rather unlimited access to the Hogwarts kitchens.

“I’ve got… roast beef and swiss, it looks like,” Crowley said, pulling the sandwiches out of the basket he’d received that evening. “Oh, and chips.”

Aziraphale rubbed his hands together in delight as Crowley passed him his serving. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“Nah, ‘s not a problem,” Crowley replied with shrug. He pulled his yellow and black scarf tighter around his neck and shoved his hands into his cloak pockets.

The October evening air  _ was _ a bit chilly, and Aziraphale’s friend had always been rather sensitive to the cold.

He pulled off his own blue and bronze scarf and handed it to the other, shivering boy. “Here,” he insisted.

Thankfully, Crowley had known him long enough to recognise when his tone brokered no argument.

“We’re going to have to start meeting inside, soon,” Crowley said through chattering teeth, winding the scarf around his own.

(Though Aziraphale would never admit it, offering Crowley his clothes was not an entirely altruistic gesture. He had a strange fascination with how his friend looked in Aziraphale’s clothes.)

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, although he didn’t sound too terribly happy about it.

“You know, we  _ could _ simply spend time together  _ during the day _ —we’ve both got a good deal of free time after charms, and there’s always an empty table in the library, or—”

“You and I both know why we can’t,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Crowley, if your family found out—”

“They’d what?” Crowley snapped. “What could they  _ possibly _ do that they didn’t do when I got  _ this _ ?” he asked, gesturing to his yellow-trimmed robes.

“Well, they  _ could _ pull you from school—”

“Pft, yeah, like  _ that’ll _ happen. Can you imagine, the Crowleys, pulling one of their kids from Hogwarts? Oh, it’d be a  _ disgrace _ —nah, I don’t reckon I’m worth the hassle—”

“You’ll get another Howler,” Aziraphale said. “And—oh, whatever it is, I certainly don’t want to risk it, my dear. Not when we have a system right now that works  _ perfectly _ fine—”

“Yesterday we spent forty-five minutes hiding behind some shrubbery because you  _ thought _ you saw Filch around the corner, and it was really just a shadow,” Crowley argued dryly.

“Well—never mind that. I’m sure there’d be no way for us to procure such tasty morsels during the day, not when the house-elves are so busy preparing the regular meals,” Aziraphale pointed out, popping a chip into his mouth.

Hot, crispy on the outside, perfectly salted.

_ Delicious _ .

“You’re just friends with me for the food.”

“Oh, hardly, my dear boy. You also happen to let me copy your herbology assignments—”

“Oh,  _ fuck off _ ,” Crowley said, unable to keep from smiling as he threw a chip at his best friend.

Aziraphale grinned in the moonlight, silently thanking whoever it was that decided it was best to never, ever survey the grounds below the quidditch pitch after dark.

(Honestly, he and Crowley both owed Hagrid a lovely meal and possibly a nice card.)

How many times over the last six years had they met during the night, Crowley with a basket of goodies from the kitchens, Aziraphale with a book or two tucked beneath his arm?

Hundreds.  _ Thousands _ , possibly.

They’d met on their very first train ride, the two of them awkwardly sitting across from each other in their glass compartment, pretending as if they couldn’t hear the couple fighting further down in the car.

“Well that went down like a lead balloon,” Crowley had muttered as someone—the boy, from the look of it—had stomped down the corridor between compartments.

“Oh?” Aziraphale had replied, looking up from his book (it wasn’t a textbook, or any other sort of  _ useful _ reading—it was an old, worn copy of  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _ that Aziraphale had read at least six times previous). “I suppose it did, rather.”

“A bit funny, really,” Crowley (although at the time Aziraphale hadn’t known his name) continued. “She ought to have told him if she wanted him to write more. I don’t reckon he’s all that good at legilimency, he couldn’t very well have read her mind.”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale had agreed. “Although, to be fair,  _ he _ ought to have figured that his paramour would want to hear from him more often than once a month.”

“ _ Para _ —who the bloody hell says  _ paramour _ nowadays, anyway?”

“I do!”

“And who are  _ you _ ?”

“Aziraphale Fell. Pleasure to meet you.”

“ _ Aziraphale Fell _ ,” Crowley had repeated. “Your parents must bloody  _ hate  _ you.”

“They do not!”

“Why the hell else would you name your kid  _ Aziraphale Fell _ ?”

“It’s a  _ family name _ —”

“Your family seems full of wankers to me.”

Aziraphale had huffed and rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you have a nice,  _ normal  _ name, then?”

“Yeah,” Crowley had replied. “Anthony J. Crowley, though nobody  _ actually _ calls me Anthony. Mostly I just get called  _ Crowley _ .”

Aziraphale had nodded and smiled at the boy in a last-ditch attempt at politeness. “Then I suppose I’ll call you that as well,” he’d said.

(At the time, they’d both found the other’s name to be  _ painfully  _ familiar, but it wouldn’t be until later that they would come to understand  _ why _ .)

And so there they were, eating under the stars as they had almost every night since first year, the black sheep of each of their families. Crowley in yellow amidst his family’s green, Aziraphale in blue amidst his family’s red (the Fells had handled Aziraphale’s  _ disappointment _ much better than the Crowleys, all things considered—he’d simply received a strongly worded letter, while Crowley had gotten Howlers every day for the first two months of term). 

They weren’t meant to be friends—all things considered, they were  _ meant  _ to be enemies.

Neither of them had ever paid that any mind.

“Suppose you passed McGonagall’s exam?” Crowley asked. He wasn’t looking at Aziraphale—his eyes were turned upwards, toward the stars.

The stars above, the roots below— _ those _ were the things that drew Crowley’s focus.

He didn’t have his glasses on, his golden snake eyes almost glowing in the starlight.

(A curse, people said. A mark of dark magic, of evil. Aziraphale had never asked about it. Crowley had never brought it up.)

“I do think so,” Aziraphale said. “There wasn’t a single feather in my teapot.”

Crowley scoffed. “Mine had a bit of a satin-y feel to it, but it worked alright,” he said.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, my dear. You always are.”

And Crowley  _ was _ . For all that Aziraphale was the bookish one between the two of them, Crowley was far from unintelligent. He performed spells with ease, had such a  _ way _ with the magic that it seemed to practically  _ ooze _ out of him, as if he were tearing at the seams, overstuffed like Aziraphale’s favourite armchair in the Ravenclaw common room.

Aziraphale loved him.

He took another bite of his roast beef and laid his head against Crowley’s shoulder.

He wouldn’t fall asleep—they never did, always too afraid that they wouldn’t wake up in time—but it was nice to sit there and pretend, if only for a moment, that things were different.

“It’ll be over soon,” Crowley murmured, as if he could read Aziraphale’s mind (he couldn’t—Aziraphale had asked, once, if he’d taken up legilimency, and Crowley had been so hurt by the mere  _ suggestion _ that he hadn’t spoken to Aziraphale for two and a half weeks). “We’ll be done with school, and we’ll go out and get a cottage somewhere, somewhere where neither of our prickhead families can find us.”

It was an encouraging thought, one that they both indulged in quite frequently. A home by the sea, filled with books and plants and all the little odds and ends that they’d collected over the years. Crowley’s prized, sleek, black broom he lovingly referred to as  _ the Bentley  _ after some luxury muggle automobile would hang over the mantle, and Aziraphale’s old gramophone that always played exactly what he wanted to hear would sit on the coffee table. It ould be somewhere  _ safe _ , somewhere to call  _ home _ .

“Say you won’t ever leave me,” Crowley asked quietly.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “If only for the food, dearest,” he replied.

The two of them finished their picnic as they watched the constellations swirl above them.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think!


End file.
